


Not Istanbul

by dreamiflame



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, Strange formatting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-08
Updated: 2004-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 16:54:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamiflame/pseuds/dreamiflame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Willow and Oz meet again, but not in Istanbul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Istanbul

**Author's Note:**

> Written because I was reading requests in a Willow ficathon and someone wanted Willow/Oz futurefic- no Istanbul. And I recently finished Season Four on DVD and needed to write Willow/Oz. Hence, there's no particular reason they're in Paris, they just are. Also, the strange formatting is deliberate.
> 
> Thanks to John and Sara for the betas.

After Sunnydale, after Kennedy _"Goodbye," they said together, and it didn't hurt as much as either thought it would,_ in Paris, Willow turns a corner and-

"Surprise," says Oz, quirky half-grin on his face-

only it isn't a surprise, not for them, long ago conversation in their heads.

"Hi," says Willow and-

"Hi," says Oz, and they look each other over, noticing new scars and lines.

"Tara?" asks Oz and Willow

stops

_busy street in Paris and the natives give her dirty looks as they go by_

breathes and-

And it's been enough time. The sorrow is a bitter tang almost swallowed by the sweetness. "Killed," she says, and Oz, open as always with her vibes sympathy with every fiber of his being.

"I'm sorry," he says and Willow nods, ducks her head out of habit then straightens and looks back at him. "I was going to suggest coffee, but-"

"Coffee's good," Willow interrupts and they smile at each other. The street corner is Sunnydale High and Paris all at once.

"I know a place," he offers, and they sit at a tiny table that forces their knees to touch, sipping from huge, steaming mugs. They talk and the years are present like silent ghosts, palpable and real.

Oz reaches toward her hand, lays his fingers- pinkie, ring- across hers- middle, index. "We've changed," he says and-

Willow laughs, her hair catching the sunlight from the window and glinting like fire. "We have," she says finally, and Oz smiles as his fingers slide against hers. "We're different."

"Older."

"Wiser?" They look across the table, around the cafe, inside their hearts, their heads, their memories. "Wiser," says Willow again, and Oz nods.

"Not Istanbul," he remarks, burning his tongue on his fresh cup of coffee.

"Not a little old lady, either," she agrees, looks down at where their hands overlap.

Oz flicks a lock of her hair. "Not blue. I was looking forward to the blue hair."

Willow giggles. "So I see. Check a mirror."

He smiles more with her than anyone else. "Well, there's that."

Willow's scent has notes of coffee and Paris and-

faint lingering traces of a girl-

_not Tara_ not anyone he knows.

Oz has stubble now, lines under his eyes, beads at his wrist. The wolf lingers in the tilt of his head, the corners of his eyes.

The shadows creep into the cafe and they order omelettes. "Fromage is a funny word," Willow says.

Oz nods, holding up a bite. "Cheese is a funny thing."

"I have a place," he offers when the plates are empty and it's really, truly, finally time to leave.

Willow

misses a step

and nods. "I'd like to see it."

Big, open windows. Chains in a barren corner- "Just in case," but understanding was bright in her eyes before the words made it to his lips. Soft couch, well-worn, homey. It's a safe place. A calm place.

An Oz-place, but Willow-friendly.

They sit on the couch, opposite corners, and continue talking. They've been talking for years with a long stretch of silence in the middle. The moon rises, peaks _nearly full_ , sinks below the horizon, is succeeded by the sun. They lean together in the center of the couch. Willow fights a losing battle against sleep.

"Bed's there," Oz points, careful with his voice, colorless.

"Ok," Willow agrees, and they curl up together, hiding their faces from the sun. Just sleep

for now.

Dusky afternoon and hunger- more coffee, another cafe, and they wander, not touching- shoulders, hands brushing, hips, knees bumping- smoky-eyed, glowing. They're wearing the same shade of eyeliner. Her hair is the sun's dying gasp, his the deepness of the twilight sky. The stars are bright and touchable over their heads.

Talking, still, old war stories, gossip, news, lovers, magic and moonlight and death. More to bind them now, more to tie them together.

More that could tear them apart, if they let it.

Willow talks about Warren using short, sharp words. Speaks about Tara and Kennedy, Dawn, Buffy and the rest with long flowing streams of thought. Oz tries to paint her pictures of the Gobi Desert with words, offers her a glimpse into a pack he ran with for a time. Back to the couch, comfortable in the middle and-

they fall asleep mid-word, backs and necks stiff when the sun is low. She wears an old shirt after her shower and smells of his shampoo.

"Are you staying?" he asks, blue dye on the towel- his hair is washing out. Willow looks at the chains and the stereo, the windows and the closet.

"Are you?" she asks, and the towel lies forgotten on the floor when he cups her face. Kisses her and-

it's like the first time, better, clumsy, awkward, overly careful and

she runs her nails down his back and he barks with laughter.

Cuddled together after and

sunset, the color of her hair

his hands are sure as they hold her to him

her head is pillowed on his shoulder.

"I love you," he- she- they say, laughing. And it's Paris, full moon, years in the future, everything the same and everything different.


End file.
